Poetry

Sipping Whiskey Neat

This dour hour
That comeuppance
Before a cocktail
And the pale mooning,
Auto-tuning, daily noting
Of the Sun’s Swan song

But- I no longer sing along
Long ago-
Having lost the key.
a high-C
I imagine,
looking down
and belting back
the very first pour
of the evening

Published by r.douglas

I’m spry yet retired. I reside in the inner city of a major metropolitan area of the United States. I read politics. I watch baseball. I hum along with the tune. I June swoon, and moon the bad poem. Post here, are old and new. Opinions are my very own, except when wrong.